


prosopopeia

by hoverbun



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, Masochism, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Objectification, Painplay, Patch 5.4: Futures Rewritten Spoilers, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28020732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoverbun/pseuds/hoverbun
Summary: Use your hands and your teeth; he says so like he means it.
Relationships: Zenos yae Galvus/Fandaniel
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	prosopopeia

**Author's Note:**

> going to be honest with you. this doubles as throne sex. this is an Excuse for throne sex.
> 
> written to intentionally suggest past zenos/asahi, but i didn’t want to tag it because this is explicitly fandaniel.

The insatiable hunger that broils inside him matches well with a would-be corpse. The plainspoken desperation feels like a thread that hangs close to his hand, brushing his knuckles, so close that he needn’t even extend his arm an ilm’s length to reach it. He could tug it without any effort and find his benefactor unraveled against him, easy and free to sink his teeth into. The simplicity of the kill is what bores him, and he would not be satisfied.

It remains easy, within his grasp, when he coils in Zenos’ lap, daring his hands to do more than grope his most fragile body. There exists the memory of scarring along the body he adopted, but the most lavish ones of all are the ones that mark his flank, two matching incisions up along his torso. Where one blade entered, and then another, creating a crossing inside the corpse and rendering his host. Blood no longer flows and the scars are gnarled but clean.

Zenos presses his fingers against them, nails embedded in the skin and scratching down from breast to hip. He wants to see blood, and he is instead rewarded with a pitchy laugh and a writhing wriggle. 

“Oh, my _Lord,_ if you’re to rip me apart, _do so,”_ his toy pleads, smile wider than the other boy used to carry.

Ripping him apart would be temporary bliss. It would not satisfy him, the sweetness of fruit on his tongue then poisoned by stale meat. Zenos experiments with his teeth on his collar, a threat like a wolf, and the body in his lap writhes once more. The smile he’s stolen is far more devious than the one the puppet was once capable of, but it doesn’t pull at anything inside Zenos. It is all observation, the differences in the same body, all from how its host seeks his teeth. He is not as desperate as the last, but he does pry and prompt for something fatal.

Maiming versus killing. Zenos knows how different they taste.

Zenos presses into his body some more, with both nails and hips. Blood wells beneath the surface of skin, warm and waiting under his fingertips, and with the press of his hips and the thickness of his cock his toy throws its head back with a shrill laugh.

He bows his head and presses against the dead skin so he doesn’t look at the desperation in his eyes. It’s depraved and predictable. Zenos seeks the hitch of his breath when it hurts just too much. The use of a death-seeking fool is limited to chasing his own pleasure and the machinations of greater plans. Zenos feels blood finally well beneath his fingers and he closes his eyes to chase it.

The body in his lap moves and seeks that same bloodstruck need; the laughing becomes hollow and hungry groans, pushing down against Zenos’ cock, hoping to be torn open against it. Arms tight around Zenos’ shoulders, hands tangled in his long hair. One of those hands grabs Zenos’ wrist and pushes his hand farther into the scarring, sloppy and desperate. Rend this body, he begs, make these marks our own.

He ruts hard against Zenos, with a wicked grin of harrowed pleasure, fingers clawing through his scalp. Zenos feels the pulse of flesh beneath his nails, and he allows himself the thought of carving in deeper, finding something to focus on. There is nothing to value about a bleeding body if he cannot have it to its marrow. Zenos grunts against the writhing corpse in his arms, raking down the flank of flesh and dragging rivets of red through his skin. He brings his hands down to grip the body by its waist and helps his toy move, unkind and firm. The way his voice pitches and rolls off his tongue in heavy pants is a distant enough memory as Zenos fills him, a wordless solution that leads his release. Zenos crushes his waist beneath his hands, feeling the pop of muscle and the unmistakable cry of complete satisfaction above him.

He is quick with his finish, but keeps his hands on his benefactor’s hips, the creep of boredom up his spine returning now that he’s emptied himself. If the boy in his lap notices his waning interest, it hardly dissuades him from clutching his entire body against Zenos, rocking to lift himself and chase his own release. The sensation is warm, and Zenos doesn’t mind the sight when he leans back and watches his hips roll and his head fall back. He wants to bait his teeth, or an open hand that tightens shut, find death in the throes of passion. Maybe such a kill could satisfy Zenos, too. But only for a moment. And for that, he spares him.

It is all well that he can pleasure himself on Zenos’ half-soft cock, leaning in the direction of his worsened scar, chasing the pain that snaps through the body. Effortless, Zenos moves his hand back up and pinches the skin — immediately, the boy comes.

The way he clenches around Zenos makes him warm. Fleeting, as everything is. When his mind returns to the body he stole, he leans close to Zenos, sitting on his knees to enjoy the rare height. He cups both hands around Zenos’ face and breathes heavy with an open mouth

“Next time,” he says, sweet and affectionate, with all of the tone of a man telling a great lie, “I hope you remember to play rough.”

Zenos moves his head away to lean his head against his own hand, slouching on his elbow. “You’ll have to earn it.”


End file.
